The Erotic Mind-Control Story Archive

Title: Everyone Loved Louise

Author: The Mother of Invention.

Email: nessblackbird@yahoo.com

Chapter Four

I put the whole matter out of my head, as best I could—barring a few wet dreams, even a wet nightmare (I don’t want to talk about it!) and another nightmare featuring Louise as a vine wrapping around and around my body while a wind chime tinkled menacingly. The sussuration of her leaves in the breeze whispered, “All I need is love.”

Louise, also, stopped coming over and asking for “massages,” at least for the moment.

I put my energy into my studies. I started going to church. Not because I believed in it, but because it gave me time away from my homework...time to think about what I had done...what I must never do again. Actually, I really liked the elegant, slow pace of the Catholic liturgy. My mom used to take me to church. So it reminded me of her. She had died about two years before this. The doctors never figured out exactly what killed her; some rare condition or other, maybe even poison. After she died, me and my dad were miserable for a long time. Eventually, we started trying to put the pieces back together. I tried to forget about her. It almost worked.

I missed her a lot, too. And somehow the new strangeness of Louise had brought me to a new place in my life, where I started thinking about her again.

I still worried about homework, too. Would I get into a good university? I was dreaming of a career in archeology, or maybe anthropology. I worried about Louise, too, of course. I had fantasies of doing something about Chris—getting him arrested, maybe. But I knew they were only daydreams.

Then one Sunday a month or so later, I saw her again, out of the blue.

I was at church with my Aunt June, a friendly, short, heavyset lady in a Sunday dress like a floral-patterned circus tent. She was so very happy I was attending church, she baked crumpets and brownies, and gave me little drinks of Chambord (but not on Sunday). She gave me rides to church. She liked to come early so she could socialize with Father Jasper and the other ladies, and on this particular day, I could hear her fruity voice chortling and giggling clearly across the entire length of the majestic building.

I was sitting in my usual spot in the back pew, where no one would pay attention to me. Sometimes I was the only one in the whole pew, when Aunt June stayed up front, and didn’t come back to sit with me.

So I was waiting for the congregation to quiet, when from behind me, Louise appeared with her mom in tow. She had on a long, flowing red dress with pockets (I noticed the pockets because she kept slipping her left hand into the pocket and then jerking it out again). She had kind of a lot of make-up on, and I thought it might be covering a bruise under her left eye.

But she was all smiles as she gave me a hug. “Hi Frank! Great to see you. We thought we’d drop by today, our priest has been, um, a little...but how’ve you been?” Another wide smile. She seemed nervous.

What was wrong her minister, I wondered? “Good,” I said, trying not to react to her softness and her mild, soapy smell as she hugged me. I didn’t want her touching me, but I wouldn’t risk rejecting her either. I had to focus. I wanted to ask why she had come to this church, when I knew usually she went to the big one near her school, but I didn’t want to make her feel unwelcome.

Louise’s mother said, “Hi Frank,” and smiled at me over Louise’s shoulder, then sat down and began to paw through her purse, looking for something. She had an enormous purse, which was literally overflowing with junk—in two seconds I saw crumpled packs of cigarettes, mascara, plastic bags with murky contents, old movie tickets, what looked like a pair of women’s underwear, tissues, and a can that might have been Mace. But those were only the tip of the iceberg. Junkberg?

Louise seemed to hold on to me a little longer than was strictly necessary, so I was a little relieved when she let go. “It’s such a pleasure to see you,” she said, looking up into my eyes. Did she wink at me? Oh, God, I hoped not. I looked down at her mom, but she had found her lipstick and was reapplying it, watching herself in a little compact mirror. She stank of cheap perfume.

Louise Sr. (well...her name was Mary Louise Barnston, but she was also called Louise; Louise’s name—the younger Louise—was Louise Mary Barnston) was thin and looked older than she probably was. Her face was lined, with an odd, little blackish spot on her right cheek. It was more of a hole than anything else, in a nearly rectangular shape, as if someone with a tweezers had plucked away a bit of her cheek.

Her lips were just the thinnest shade pinker than the grayish skin of her face; and the lipstick was almost totally colorless, so it did nothing at all. But she put it on with a lot of care and attention, ignoring us completely as Louise turned a little more towards me, and took my left hand with her right one. “I love the songs at this church,” she said. “Don’t you? I love to sing for Jesus.”

“I don’t have much of a voice,” I said truthfully.

“Oh, Frank, you always sound wonderful to me,” said Louise, but just then the crowd quieted; we sat. Aunt June was still up front.

I sat and wondered. When had Louise heard me sing?

So it was just me and Louise, and her mom. I sat quietly, listening to the priest and the choir, forcing myself not to glance at Louise, trying (and failing) to avoid thinking about what she looked like without her clothes. Louise seemed tired, and occasionally she leaned against me for a moment, her right hand resting on the pew between us, touching my thigh. Once, it snuck beneath my thigh. I looked at Louise, a little shocked—that was hardly what I expected of her! She looked down at her hand, then reached across with her left hand to yank it away.

That was a little odd. But probably it was nothing.

Later, her wayward right hand wandered across my thigh to stroke my crotch. I nearly cried out, but managed to sit quietly (with just a shuddering gasp) as it smoothed the thin polyester of my slacks, then gently grasped me through my Sunday slacks. My face burned hot, but I kept looking ahead, my pulse pounding in my temple as she manipulated me. After a few endless moments—they were like hours—I glanced over at her.

She was looking forward, apparently completely attentive to the liturgy. The priest was reciting the Lord’s Prayer at the time, and her lips were mouthing the words along with him, apparently unaware of what her hand was up to. Louise Sr. looked half asleep. Louise Jr. looked back at me, then down at her hand. She drew a sharp breath, and again reached across her body with her left hand—it was more of a lunge this time—and jerked her hand back. Her right hand didn’t seem to want to leave, hanging onto my wooden dick (well, it felt like it) until she managed to pull her hand away from me. I held my breath: a tide was rising in my sexual parts, an unholy flood that threatened to cut loose—right in the middle of Church! I prayed— really prayed, as I never had before—that it would subside; and gradually, it did. A little.

Louise now seemed to forget the whole thing. Again, she stared forward, chanting silently along with the service. I was sure she was focussed on the priest, but her hands were doing a remarkable dance all the while. The right fingertips would run across the skin of the left hand, one finger after another stroking from the wrist to the fingernails, then the left would turn over to grab at the right; they would hold onto each other: at times they seemed almost ready to wrestle. For a time, the left hand held onto the right pinkie finger while the right hand turned this way and that, as if seeking an escape. Then the left pointed at the right, twisting this way and that, as if it had something to say—it went on and on.

I tried not to watch. It was none of my business. I stared stupidly up at Father Jasper instead.

Later in the service, we stood and sang hymns. Louise’s voice was clear and strong, perfectly in key. Mine, not so much. I sang quietly, trying to follow her lead—my head was spinning. It was a good thing we were in the back, because I was still embarrassingly erect, though I hoped my underwear held my parts more or less back, out of sight against my body. At any rate, Louise Sr. certainly never looked at me. Actually, Louise, Jr. didn’t look at me, either. Maybe she felt bad since she’d caused my problem.

If she even knew about it. I wondered if she even had control of her right hand.

At any rate, she sang beautifully, her voice carrying over the heads of the congregation like a gentle breeze. A few heads turned; I thought the pew in front of us hid my hardness, and no one appeared to notice me, though they must have been wondering who the angel was that had landed at their church.

A few songs in, Louise’s voice became quieter, and lower—but no less full of religious fervor—as we sang “The Cry of the Poor.” It really was a very moving piece. I’d sung it before, but I still had to look down at the sheets they’d passed around. Louise knew the words by heart.

The Lord hears the cry of the poor

I will bless the Lord at all times

His praise shall be ever in my mouth

A few bars in, her right hand grabbed hold of my left, not gently. I looked at her; she was singing full out. Her hand was on its own. It pulled my hand into her pocket—I tried to pull away, but it was like the hand was possessed. She must have been strong from all the cleaning she did.

I gasped. Inside the red dress she was naked. My hand was drawn inexorably across the bare skin of her hip.

I pulled as hard as I could without attracting attention, but it was hopeless. This petite young lady had a hand like steel, and my hand slid slowly but surely across the curve at the top of her thigh, my wrist touching her lower belly.

Then my fingers touched the hair. Louise’s voice never faltered, but mine sure did. I pretty nearly stopped singing, even though I was terrified of being noticed.

My hand reached a secret, soft spot in the hair (Louise didn’t seem to care). I’d never felt a girls private parts before, and I had no clear idea of what I was feeling, but her hand now separated out my fingers and guided the middle one to touch—to rub—across a little bump she had down there. I was too...overwhelmed to do anything more than let my finger be controlled by hers. My head spun. My finger was rubbed, fairly gently actually, back and forth across the bump, then around and around it.

I could feel the cloth of her dress across the back of my hand. Her soft belly against my lower arm. There was no way this could go on without it being noticed, but so far, we’d been lucky.

Louise kept singing. I thought her voice had gotten a breathier quality, but I couldn’t have sworn to it.

Then she drew my finger downward, across the bump and into a slippery, dark place between her legs. Somewhere it had never been before. I caught my breath again. God only knows what I was singing, or if I still was.

When the just cry out the Lord hears them

And from their distress he rescues them

Next my finger—covered now with mysterious, feminine lubricant— was drawn back across the bump, and around, and around again. And down again, for more of her secret sauce.

Louise’s voice rose higher, and got even sweeter. It was angelic, it really was. Her face was full of emotion. Louise truly cared about the plight of the poor. But at the same time, unnoticed, her hand moved mine around and around. With the slippery stuff, it moved better now, and she pressed a little harder...and harder...and moved a little faster.

The feeling I’d had before was coming back. Even though she wasn’t even touching my private parts, I was in danger of erupting.

But something was happening to Louise now...her voice rose in magnificent alto as the song finished...her knees bent a bit more...something was happening...

The Lord hears the cry of the poor

Blessed be the Lord

My God, she could hold a note, sweet and clear and high. Her voice soared above crowd.

My finger was pressed hard against the little bump, which began to throb under my fingers. I felt it powerfully pulsing, a silent convulsion. Louise’s vibrato became a bit more pronounced, but aside from that, her voice never wavered as she came. She was looking at the front of the church, as well as she could over the crowd of taller people.

Several were looking back at her. Shit! Surely they would notice what she was up to. But there was no outcry.

Me, I was a sweating, terrified lump of miserable sexuality. My penis throbbed, sticking out horribly beneath the slippery fabric of my slacks. I had an extreme sense of sexual need, but of course there was nothing to be done. I couldn’t even run off to the bathroom. If I moved, everyone would immediately notice what had happened to me.

There were a few moments between the songs, and Louise turned to me with a big smile—and another wink. I tried to smile back, though I’m sure I looked more like I was in pain.

The next song began: Shepherd Me Oh God. I couldn’t sing, I’d have sounded like I was choking to death.

Shepherd me, O God, beyond my wants

Beyond my fears, from death into life

I sat through the entire song, breathing Louise’s subtle feminine essence, praying, as my erection persisted. Another song began, and still I stood there, hard as rock, gazing off over the crowd, trying to think of anything but the pulsing in my loins.

This was a mistake. With my attention distracted, Louise’s evil right hand shot out and grabbed me, holding firm.

No! I stood frozen. What could I do? It had me, the Hand. I was helpless, at the edge of a terrible sexual cliff. If I so much as tried to pull away, I might tip over. I made tiny, pitiful sounds, begging without words—as far as possible, without any sound at all— for her to stop. My own, rubbery fingers fluttered haplessly around the hand that held me.

I could feel the hand grinning at me—is that crazy? It squeezed a little harder, laughingly, and began to pump me.

My vision began to narrow as higher brain functions shut down. I couldn’t breath. I was mere inches from the cliff, now. Surely everyone would see! But I couldn’t tell what was happening around me.

How can a hand giggle? But I swear it did. Then it gave a little twist, and sent me over the edge.

It felt me lose control, and suddenly dived inside my pants, to revel in the sticky fluid issuing from me.

I fell back on the pew behind me. For a moment, I was afraid the hand wouldn’t let go of me even then, but it just took the chance to squeeze the last few drops out of me as I went down. Then it rose to her mouth.

Louise licked her palm, sucked my stolen liquids off her fingers, and returned to singing.

Her left hand was on her heart, praying for forgiveness, casting occasional mortified glances to the right.